


Nuvole Bianche

by AlessiaHeartilly



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29807472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessiaHeartilly/pseuds/AlessiaHeartilly
Summary: The melody in her memories is hazy, but it’s there. She’ll nurture it and care for it, and bring it to the world again. Tears have nothing to do with that. Resolve does. Love does. [Rinoa, music, and the pain that heals.]
Relationships: Irvine Kinneas/Selphie Tilmitt, Rinoa Heartilly/Squall Leonhart
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. I. PAST

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: it’s pretty obvious I don’t own FFVIII.  
> This story is inspired by “Nuvole Bianche” by Ludovico Einaudi.  
> And is obviously dedicated to my mother.

**NUVOLE BIANCHE**

_Music, rich, full of feeling, not soulless, is like a crystal on which the sun falls and brings forth from it a whole rainbow.  
\- F. Chopin –_

**I. PAST**

At the end of February, after the war, Rinoa tells Squall that she would like to go away for a few days since her birthday is approaching. To Trabia, maybe, just to avoid all the chaos and attention on her; they are still too famous and her being a Sorceress does not help.

So Squall looks for a cabin in Trabia, and they leave very early in the morning, to avoid the journalists that surely want to get in contact with the Sorceress. Their friends will join them for the weekend.

They have spent a lazy afternoon by the fire, in each other’s arms, Angelo snoring softly on the carpet, when Squall decides to get up and cook dinner. She sits on the sofa and turns on the TV to watch the news; predictably, they are talking about her. She is half-listening to a reportage about her family when Squall says, from the kitchen door, “I think I met your mother…”

That gets her attention. She turns to look at him; he’s leaning against the doorway, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“How so?” she asks.

“In a dream. I think she was Laguna’s…. crush.”

“Tell me more, please?” she almost begs.

He looks inside the kitchen as if checking if the food is ok. Then he shrugs and goes to the sofa, sitting beside her.

“Well, we… were coming to Timber. It was the very first time it happened… you know, Ellone.” She nods and takes his hand, using it to pull him nearer, so she can lean her head on his chest. “I remember the dream actually began in Timber. I think we were in the forests surrounding the city… but then Laguna decided to go back.”

Rinoa smiles, sensing his disbelief at such unprofessional behavior.

“We were in Deling City, then. His friends asked me – I mean him if he wanted to go to the same place or something like that. I think they were making fun of him… then we were in the hotel’s bar. She appeared a little later, to play the piano… it was… a very beautiful melody. A little melancholy but… I liked it.”

She nods. She has listened to that same melody for years.

“I didn’t know anything about that girl, just her name. Julia. She… Uhm… told him she had written a song about him.”

“It was ‘Eyes on me’. The song we danced to at your graduation ball… it’s a modified version. It became a very popular song when she finally recorded it. There were many covers at the time…”

“I recognized her from that reportage on tv. I didn’t know she was your mother.”

“Selphie told me about your dreams… she told me about this one, too. I didn’t tell her it was about my mother, though.”

“Why not?” he asks, shifting a little so he can hold her a little better.

“You all had too many things to think about, at the time… I didn’t want to add this too. There was too much going on and I just thought we could talk about it later. When things got…easier.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say more about her.” He puts his chin on her hair, thinking. “She was… very sweet. Laguna was a total fool, he kept talking about himself but she… listened. She understood. And when she confessed she had a song about him, she looked almost…”

“In love?”

He doesn’t want to offend her admitting her mother looked enamored with his father, but she has already said it, and she doesn’t seem distressed by that fact. “Yes. She looked… happy.”

She frees herself from his embrace. “We should check the food.”

He follows her into the kitchen, and she’s stirring the hot soup when she says, “I’ve always known my father wasn’t her first love. Actually, sometimes I even thought she didn’t really love him.” She stops stirring the food and leans her hands on the kitchen counter, her head so low that her hair hides her expression from him. “My father never talked about her. I just had my memories and they were so fragmented. I just remember her saying that she had to go out, that she needed to see someone about her new song. I asked her if I could hear it first. She just said: later, honey. And she was gone.”

Squall goes to her, embraces her from behind, his arms around her shoulders and his mouth against her temple. He doesn’t know how to soothe her; this is a kind of pain he can’t deal with. Their bond is burning with it, to the point he feels almost scorched. He just holds her, her body trembling slightly against his chest until she raises her head. “Thank you.”

They eat in silence, the television just a distant noise in the other room.

Later, just before going to bed, she asks him if they can go to Deling City, before going home.

* * *

_Her mother’s fingers are running so fast on the keys that it almost looks like they are not even moving. The music flows in the room and she stares, excited, trying to understand how her mother does it._

_“It’s just practice,” says Julia, and Rinoa climbs up the stool to sit beside her. She slowly presses a white key, and delighted by the melody, tries to reach a black key, failing._

_“You’re too small, honey,” says her mother. “When you grow up you can learn if you want to, ok?”_

* * *

In Deling City, in her father’s house, she runs her finger on the dusty furniture of her mother’s music room.

The piano is no more there: her father had it removed a few days after Julia’s death. Everything else is still as Julia left it that fateful night before going out: on the desk, there are several blank music sheets, there are open books scattered in the room, a bag on the little sofa in the corner near the window. It almost looks like a time capsule.

She moves her hand over the sheets on the desk: underneath, she finds a note. The appointment her mother had the night she died. She never reached the place; a drunkard ran over her before she could. She places her finger on her mother’s elegant handwriting, so different from her own: her mother’s is small, regular. She writes in big, round letters that almost look a little too childish.

Squall watches her as she moves into the room; the sun coming in from the window illuminates the dust she lifts with her actions. She almost looks surrounded by the past, and he has to control the instinct to reach out and touch her to make himself sure she’s real. She looks lost, sad, and distant.

Then, without saying a word, she goes to the little sofa, and with a little struggle pulls the zip of the bag open. She recognizes this bag, she remembers it: the zip was broken. She thinks that’s why nobody opened it for all these years.

And then she sees it.

Inside the bag, there’s a folder. She realizes her fingers are trembling when she reaches out to take the folder. She opens it slowly, after the deepest breath she has ever taken: and then she sees the score of the very last song her mother has composed.

She watches, and Squall watches her.

She turns page after page; eight sheets of music she has never heard.

And then she lifts her head, turns to Squall, and says, “this is the last song my mother has written.”

He approaches her slowly, almost afraid the room may break if he enters with too little respect for this piece of past. The bond is so still it almost feels like it’s not even there. She looks at the music as if waiting for it to say something; then, with her voice broken by the tears, she whispers, “it’s my mother’s last message to the world, and I can’t understand it.”

* * *

_“What are those?” asks Rinoa, pointing her chubby finger to the music score her mother is trying to learn._

_“Those are called notes,” answers Julia patiently. She wants to find a way to explain how music works to her daughter, in a way a little child can understand; but she knows she’s not really good at teaching. “Come here,” she says finally, and takes her little girl in her arms, makes her sit in her lap. “Now choose a black spot on the paper. I’ll play it for you.”_

_Rinoa points and Julia presses a key on her piano. The girl is fascinated by that; she points again and again and again, and Julia presses another key, and another, and another. “How?” asks the child, and Julia understands she wants to know how she knows which key must be pressed._

_“You need to study hard and practice a lot. And sooner or later you’ll be able to read that sheet and hear the music in your little head.” And she ruffles her daughter’s hair._

* * *

In Esthar, one hot June afternoon, they decide to enter the bookshop and enjoy the air conditioning for a while.

Rinoa hasn’t looked at her mother’s music since that day in Deling. The score is safely stored in her drawer, at Balamb Garden. Every now and then, she tries hard to remember what her mother told her: but she was too young to understand, too young to remember. She just looks at the music and cannot hear the melody in her head, she cannot even identify the notes. All she sees are black and white dots.

She almost unconsciously looks for books about music. Squall follows her around the store; reading is something new for him, a pleasure she taught him. He chooses books when the title or the cover’s image seems interesting; most of the time, he watches Rinoa and almost naturally follows her lead in that area. She loves reading, and he found out that her taste is almost similar to his.

Rinoa picks a book about music theory and flips through the pages. He’s surprised at how fast he understands why she picked that particular book: she wants to be able to read her mother’s song. The expression on her face is almost longing, and he wants to grab her hand and squeeze it and let her feel his presence, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to disturb her. She puts the book down, turns to look at him. “We should go,” she says, trying to look indifferent. “We need to go back to the Palace and freshen up, or we’ll be late for dinner with your father.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer. She moves past him, and he barely has the time to check the book’s title before following her.

That night, after dinner, Laguna leads them both into a room near his apartments at the Palace. He asks for a cup of Estharian herbal tea and, almost proudly, shows what he calls ‘my little haven’. The room is full of bookcases, paintings, and in a corner near the window, there’s a grand piano. Squall feels a shiver on his spine; Rinoa’s attention will be for the instrument only.

As soon as she enters the room, she gasps and covers her mouth: she has recognized a little heart she has drawn on the piano leg, long long ago... Her voice is thick with tears when she turns to Laguna and says, “is that…?”

“It’s your mother’s piano,” he answers, nodding. “I found it a few years ago in an auction. I bought it because… ah, I don’t know.” His leg trembles, he can’t control the cramp that creeps along his muscles. “When I found out you’re Julia’s daughter, I… I just want you to have it,” he finishes, trying hard not to double up in pain. “I don’t know if you can play, I just think it should stay in your family. You can leave it here if you don’t want to take it to Garden… just remember you can come here anytime and play it, or anything you want.”

She hugs him tightly, and he’s still trying to control his cramp and his emotions. He simply pats her back. “Thank you so much, Laguna. You don’t know how much I cried when my father had it removed… I… I can’t even… thank you.”

“I loved your mother,” he says, a little awkward, and Rinoa goes back to Squall, squeezes his hand. “I couldn’t stand someone else having her piano. But… it will be my pleasure to give it to you, if you accept.”

“Yes,” she breathes, and turns to look at her boyfriend with glistening eyes. “Do you think we could take it to Garden? Would Cid mind? I don’t want to-“

“Don’t worry, Cid won’t mind,” he interrupts. Then he turns to his father; his eyes are glistening too. “Thanks. It means a lot.”

Laguna nods. “Just...” He swallows, fights his cramp again. “Just let me hear you play, once in a while.”

Rinoa nods, looking longingly at the piano.

Two days later, she wakes up alone in bed. Squall apparently went to train; typical. She stretches and her hand hits something; she looks more closely, and it’s the music theory book she picked in the bookstore.

There’s also a note.

_So you can understand her message. Love you. S._

* * *

_“Why stop?” asks Rinoa. Julia sighs; she adores her daughter but there are moments she just wishes she could be alone for an hour, just her and her piano and her memories. Rinoa is a very curious girl, she keeps asking questions, and today Julia would like to be left alone; but then she feels guilty and opens her arms so her child can go sit in her lap._

_“Sometimes, in music, silence is more important. With silence you can give meaning, you can break the rhythm, you can make the listeners think. Silence is powerful. Sometimes you just need that.”_

_Rinoa is a very curious girl, but she’s also very intelligent. She’s quiet for a long while, listening intently, watching her movements as if trying to understand what’s really behind those silences, those pauses in the music._

_Sometimes Julia thinks she wants a little peace and quiet, a more understanding husband that would keep their daughter entertained while she plays her piano. But in moments like this, she sees a spark in Rinoa and she just can’t wait to teach her daughter to play._

* * *

By the time they come back to Balamb, Rinoa has finished her music theory book. She’s not sure she understood everything, but she knows she simply can read those notions again. Her mother’s piano will be shipped from Esthar next week; she can’t wait.

Squall keeps telling her that she can’t expect to play her mother’s song soon. He says that her mother started playing as a child, and Rinoa’s almost nineteen now. He doesn’t know anything about music, and he just has a vague memory of Julia playing; still, he’s sure that managing to write the kind of song Rinoa found required a lot of work, a lot of practice, and a lot of studies. Rinoa dismisses his concerns and really can’t wait to get home and look at the music score again.

So she does.

Squall is right, and the black and white dots her mother has written on those music sheets have no more meaning than they had before they left for Esthar. But she opens her book again, devours it again, comparing everything she reads to her mother’s delicate touches on the sheets. For an entire week, Squall comes home after works and finds her on the sofa, her mother’s song on the coffee table, studying that book again and again. He smiles, meets her lips when she greets him, ruffles her hair, and fixes dinner while she learns of tempo markings, of time signatures, a lot of terms stolen from ancient Centran, of beats and rhythms and there are so, so many memories of her mother, her words, the way she tried to teach her things in a way a four-years-old could understand. She was writing this song in those memories, Rinoa thinks, putting one note after the other, linking them together with her long and elegant fingers, lacing them with her meaningful silences and pauses. She closes her eyes, and her mother’s right hand is hovering on the keys…

… _arpeggio_ , Julia said one morning, as the sun filled the music room with light. Rinoa remembers laughing at such a funny word. Then her mother giggled, played an arpeggio for her, and Rinoa at almost nineteen is filled with the same childish wonder the melody gave her when she was four. High notes, the right hand. Like glass clinking.

Rinoa feels her heart squeezing.

She remembers.

She remembers, and it’s beautiful and soul-crushing.

* * *

_Rinoa twirls and twirls in her yellow dress, with her hand full of daises she has picked up from the garden for her mother. Julia is happy, this morning, and she takes her little girl into her arms, squeezing until her daughter laughs out loud._

_“Guess what?” she asks Rinoa, caressing the little girl’s face._

_“Tell me, mummy!”_

_“Your father said you can learn to play the piano!”_

* * *

Her mother’s smile was radiant, that morning. It’s curious because now Rinoa’s older and she recognizes the subtle differences – there was _mummy_ , but there was _father_. Something has always connected her to Julia, not only in her looks but in her spirit, in the way she sees things, in the way she feels justice, in the way music fills her soul and seems to keep her glued together.

There was mummy, warm and gentle and delicate and sunny and flowery and everything she wanted to be as a young woman.

And there was father, serious and a little detached and always too busy and not that interested in the way sometimes her mother played her piano like she was thinking about something she had lost. Someone she could no longer reach.

He cared, he just didn’t know how to really show it.

Kinda like Squall, she thinks.

But then Squall is back home, with a paper bag on his left hip. She wonders, sometimes – when the time comes, will he be _father_ , like Caraway had been, even back when they got along, or will he be _daddy_?

He smiles, scratches Angelo’s ears, and he is warmth around their bond, tenderness around her mind, and she tingles, blushing slightly at her own thoughts. “I bought dinner,” he says. “Balamb fish.”

“Oh,” she coos. “What’s the occasion?”

“Your piano will be here in two hours. Hey, no tears, you promised,” he says, setting the paper bag on the kitchen counter. He comes nearer, kneels before her. She is almost petrified, and she tries to blink back her tears. He’s right, she promised him. Learning her mother's song will be hard, she’ll need patience, she’ll need to focus. The melody in her memories is hazy, but it’s there. She’ll nurture it and care for it, and bring it to the world again. Tears have nothing to do with that. Resolve does. Love does.

“There’s something I want to give you,” he whispers, brushing a stray tear away. “If you promise not to cry.”

She shakes her head, tries to smile. “I’m just happy, you know that.”

“Mh, ok then,” he says, standing up. “Come.”

He guides her to the kitchen, nods to the paper bag. Leaning against the kitchen sink, he watches as she rummages through the bag.

She feels his gaze, warm and protective, like the summer breeze on her skin, when the sun is so hot and the air is so nice. The bond between them is almost singing in anticipation.

Under the Balamb fish’s bag, carefully wrapped to preserve flavor, there’s something else. Books, she knows, wrapped in ocean blue paper, sealed with Balamb’s bookstore distinctive sticker. She opens the paper, careful not to tear it apart, and her eyes widen.

“They are practice routines for beginners. You can use them to learn the basics. Kavya swears they’re the best.”

Rinoa swallows tears. “You enlisted the librarians’ help?”

Squall slowly moves away from the counter to embrace her. He puts two fingers under her chin and lifts it to look into her eyes. He smirks. “Of course not. I asked Zell, so he had an excuse to see her.”

She snorts, and in doing so the tears she has tried to hold back spill. “This will drive you nuts,” she says. She has a vague memory of pressing the same keys again and again, the pain in her small fingers, her mother gently guiding her hand.

He feels the memory through their bond, feels the love in it, feels Julia’s gentleness, Rinoa’s eagerness, their happiness, a yearning, a kind of pain that is different, not scorching as it was in Trabia. The kind of pain that does something good. The kind of pain that heals.

He moves a lock of her hair behind her ear, cups her face, and brushes a tear away with his thumb. “I don’t think so.”

* * *

_Julia moves her hand ever so slowly on the keys, and Rinoa is watching in wonder. ”See?” says Julia, and her little girl eagerly nods, eyes sparking. She’s almost trembling with excitement._

_Then it’s Rinoa’s turn to press the key. She’s a little too eager, and they spend the good part of an hour trying to get the hand position right, pressing two keys, again and again and again._

_And they laugh._

_And they’re happy._

* * *

Rinoa is particularly strict with her practice.

She studies her theory – she’s trying to learn to sight-read – and she uses that knowledge when she sits at her piano – her mother’s piano, she sighs, and she brushes the little red heart she drew on its white leg, to make sure it’s really _her piano_ – and exercises. She follows the instructions on the books Squall gave her to the letter.

She presses the keys – finger one and finger two, finger one and finger two, one two three four, long note at the end, start again – and she remembers, and sometimes she closes her eyes, sighing heavily, and she hears the rustle of fabric on the other corner of the room.

Squall is lying on the sofa, reading the latest issue of Weapons Monthly, one leg bent to support the magazine, one hand holding it open and the other dangling from the sofa to touch Angelo’s head, sleeping at his feet. He looks focused, but she knows he’s listening. She must be driving him nuts, playing those two notes again and again, and that thought passes through their bond before she has a chance to stop it.

“You’re not,” he says aloud. “I kind of like it. I don’t mind at all.”

For his sake, though – and for her sake, too – she switches to scales. C Major. That’s the only thing her mother has really managed to teach her. _Finger one, finger two, finger three, pass the thumb, one again, two again, three again, four, five. Back again to middle C_. Repeat until your fingers hurt.

Then do it with your left hand. Again and again and again.

When her hour of practice is done, Squall sits up and opens his arms. She sprawls on his chest, and he absentmindedly takes her hand in his, massaging it with his thumb.

“Does it hurt?”

“I feel like my little finger is going to pop out on the other side,” she says, and he chuckles.

“Sounds gory,” he jokes, still massaging her hand. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“It feels unreal,” she answers, after a long silence. “But it doesn’t hurt.” She closes her eyes, enjoying the gentle pressure on her palm, the feeling of his coarse lips kissing her forehead again and again. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Why would I?” he asks, caressing her hair with his free hand.

Why would he? Through the bond, there’s a distinct feeling of the way he looks at this. It’s practice. She needs it to push forward, to move on other things, on music made to communicate something, not made to teach. She needs it to understand her mother’s message. She needs those exercises as he needs his gunblade routine. It’s the strength of the foundations she’s building. He sees its beauty and appreciates it.

This kind of moves her to tears and she blinks. She promised, no tears. Tears have nothing to do with this. Resolve does. Love does.

“I dunno,” she jokes, her voice cracking. “I thought maybe you’d start asking yourself _what have I gotten myself into_?”

“That’s something I stopped asking myself a long time ago, Rinoa.”

“Think you’re so smug, uh?” She playfully hits his chest, feeling the sound of his chuckle reverberating against her breasts. “I resent that.”

He puts a finger under her chin, gently lifting her head. “Whatever I got myself into, I love you, Rin.”

Later, in their bed, when she’s pressed flush against his chest, still slightly breathless, she pulls away from his kisses. “Thank you,” she whispers. The moon shines through their curtains, and his face is almost soft, almost ethereal in the combined light of the moon and their bedside lamp.

“For what?”

“Your support. It means the world to me.”

* * *

_Her father takes her hands. He’s swallowing a lot, Rinoa thinks, as she does when she sees a dessert she likes. But his cheeks are moist, and he’s been trying to say something._

_“Why are you sad?” she asks. Father is never sad. His cheeks are never moist. Mummy’s cheeks are, sometimes, but she says it’s because she makes her smile so much._

_“Rinoa, honey, you know that mummy went out, right?”_

_Caraway watches his little girl nod. She is a little weary, almost suspicious._

_“She…” His voice falters and cracks. How do you say to a five years old girl that the mother she adores won’t come back anymore? “Mummy can’t be with us anymore, honey,” he says._

_Mummy always says she is a good girl, so Rinoa nods. She won’t make a fuss. Her father doesn’t like tantrums. “Can I see her tomorrow?”_

_Caraway picks her up, makes her sit on his knees. Maybe it will be easier if he doesn’t have to look into his daughter’s eyes. She has Julia’s eyes, Julia’s hair, Julia’s soft features, and it hurts so much to look at her right now that he can’t do it, not when he has closed his wife’s eyes forever a little more than an hour ago._

_“Mummy won’t come back for a very long time, honey.” He leans his cheek against Rinoa’s hair, breathing her scent. Her mother’s scent, her mother’s real scent, not the one of blood, of pain, of fear, of death. A soft scent of roses. He wants to remember that._

_“But I want to hear her song. She pr-promised.” There’s a cold feeling in Rinoa’s heart, a painful and strained edge in her father’s words. She doesn’t understand. Mummy promised. Mummy always keeps promises._

_“She wanted to keep her promise, Rinoa.” He hugs her tighter because he knows Julia’s_ mummy _, but he is_ father _, detached and a little cold. But maybe he can be_ daddy _, for once. For his little girl, his little, innocent, motherless girl, he can try to be_ daddy. _Try to soothe her pain. Try to make her understand the unfathomable for her five-year-old mind. “We won’t see mummy for a very, very long time, honey.” He notices her eyes drift on the telephone on his desk. “We can’t call her either.”_

_“What, I can’t hear my mummy’s voice anymore?” Rinoa almost shrieks, because even if she doesn’t grasp the idea of death, there is something that is now making its way into her brain._

_Mummy will never come back again._

_Caraway holds her tighter, buries his head into her hair, and he cries, because his little sunny girl with her scent of roses is motherless, and he is a widower, and this pain is so unbearable, so unthinkable, he doesn’t know how he’ll wake up tomorrow morning._

_But his little girl needs him._

_Mummy is no more._

_And Rinoa wails._


	2. II. PRESENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nuvole Bianche” by Ludovico Einaudi is a song. I realized it was not clear. If you feel like listening to it, I suggest Rousseau’s channel on youtube.  
> Also, since I’m dumb I didn’t include the ending notes on part 1… I just want to say that Kavya is the library girl, aka Zell’s girlfriend. Complete ending notes will be posted in part 3. Enjoy!

**NUVOLE BIANCHE**

**II. PRESENT**

From now on, she is on her own. No more memories of her mother’s soothing voice teaching her how to do music. Her father had the piano removed after she spent an entire day crying and screaming in front of the music room, because he had locked the door, unable to stand the sounds her daughter made with the instrument.

It felt like his wife was still in there. It hurt too much.

Rinoa, at five years old, didn’t understand. She felt that her father had betrayed her by selling her mother’s piano.

Rinoa, at seventeen, mourned the loss of Seifer, mulling over Squall’s words about being spoken about in the past tense, and started to understand her father a little more.

Rinoa, at nineteen, knows her father was grieving, and she silently forgives him.

* * *

She is on her own, but Selphie shows her a lot of websites that can help her. There are videos, tutorials, exercises, routines, music theory.

They spend a Sunday afternoon together, crammed in their apartment, Squall slouching on their sofa, an arm leisurely around her shoulders, Irvine letting Selphie sit on his knees, in one of the armchairs, Zell and Kavya squeezing themselves on the other, and Quistis on the other end of the sofa, holding her belly as they laugh. They’ve been helping Rinoa to understand rhythm, clapping and tapping their feet to some exercises that Selphie has found on the net. They are having fun, they are learning, they are reminiscing their not-so-bad performance in FH.

They are free.

She is learning, and she doesn’t feel like she is on her own anymore.

* * *

She starts to think about her friends in terms of music, to get into the feel of melodies.

Squall is a _vivace_ , their first waltz together, the kind that makes her slightly breathless, the kind that is fast, and bright, and glorious. It sounds so unbecoming of her moody Commander, she thinks with a small giggle as he turns to look at her, trying to remain serious but badly failing, and grabs her arm to yank her closer, making her fall on his chest with her breath caught between a laugh and a kiss. That’s what he is to her, though – the light that drives away the darkness, and music, and happiness that makes her heart swell, and steady love. Trust.

Edea is an _adagio_ , slow, solemn, a veil of pain in her eyes, a feeling of longing and of loneliness not quite forgotten yet.

Selphie is a _prestissimo_ , a steady rush of energy, the burning of instant friendship, the tingle of laughter, the twirling in the sunlight in the Quad, at lunchtime, the teasing, the sister she never had and badly needed and she feels so, so grateful for her existence.

Quistis is an _andante grazioso_ , grace incarnate, a tender numb of friendliness with a touch of _mother-hen-liness_ , as Selphie put it once during a slumber party in her dorm, _but it’s not even a word!_ , elegant in her protest, a warm smile, a guide, a mentor of sorts, someone she admires, someone who admires her and that makes her so proud.

Zell is a _vivacissimo_ , not energetic like Selphie, but more powerful, a burst of emotion, someone that makes her head spin with laughter, childish antics, friendly smiles, jokes that don’t hurt her anymore about sorceresses and bones, Squall’s best friend.

Irvine is an _allegro_ and _a piacere_ , living his life at his leisure, a bit suave, charming but loyal, stubborn but helpful – _after I scratched you to death!_ – fingers on the tip of his hat, the doting boyfriend of her newfound sister.

Laguna is a _larghetto_ , a life of losses and grieving, friendships that last a lifetime, the first love of her mother, a piano bought out of love, a piano gifted out of love, welcoming and accepting, jumbled words, the appreciation of small joys.

Seifer is a _grave_ , crushed dreams and a lot of regrets, a new life in FH, loyal friends to help him rebuild.

 _And your mother?,_ she hears in her head, a thought Squall didn’t really want her to hear. She mulls over it, as he pulls her closer, her back against his chest, his lips on her neck, the sheets rumpling around them, the light fading in sunset outside of their bedroom window on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

 _Tempo rubato_ , she thinks. Stolen. Stolen too soon.

* * *

Sunday afternoons are for friends, for the celebration of the accomplishments of the week, and sometimes she plays, blushing because the exercises are a little boring, but they love hearing her play.

They know it’s important and they support her.

It’s strange because the guys have never struck her as people who could love piano music, but they’re there nonetheless, they clap their hands – sometimes Irvine whistles and Squall looks at him in mock annoyance, but it’s nice. It’s strange but it’s also touching and she is so, so grateful. There is laughter, there are a lot of _let me try too_ and _will you teach me?_ and _how can you do that with your thumb_ and _oh my gosh Irvy don’t be a perv I didn’t mean it like that_ and _ouch, I can’t reach that key_ and _aaargh my little finger is tooooooooooo little_ and there are times when she sits with Quistis and Selphie on the small bench and they try to play with six hands with Kavya badly imitating an orchestra director, dissolving in laughter after maybe three keys. Kavya brings book after book, and Squall is basically creating a musical library in their living room, even when she tells him there’s no need for so many gifts, and their teas and muffins and a giant Balamb pizza shared for dinner taste of happiness, and freedom.

Music is happiness.

She latches on that happiness when she feels frustrated because her hands mess up and her fingers hurt, when Squall catches her doubts along their bond and he dissolves them with a flick of his hand, a smile on his lips, a breath of a kiss on her hair. “You’re doing good,” he says, and she latches onto that, too, sprawling onto his chest as he massages her palms.

* * *

When she turns twenty-one, Kavya, Selphie, and Quistis wear mysterious smiles, singing _happy birthday_ in her kitchen. She tries to shush them, laughing, because Squall has just come back from a mission and he’s still sleeping. Rinoa smiles and blows the single candle on her cupcake – frosting blue as a summer sky – as they all tell her to make a wish.

Then Selphie takes her hand and before Rinoa knows it they’re in Balamb, in front of an elegant blue door in the northern area of the small city. A woman that looks seventy greets them and looks at Rinoa, with warm eyes that seem so unbecoming of that tight bun of grey hair, of that black dress and those white pearls at her neck. “So, you are my student then?”

“W-what?” Rinoa says, turning to look at the knowing faces of her friends.

“First ten lessons are on us!” chirps Selphie, doing her little happy dance.

“Over there,” says Quistis, graceful and elegant as she points with her finger at a door on their left, then crosses her arms on her chest.

A piano, a little worn out.

“And the first lesson is today,” says Kavya nodding. “So hurry up girl!”

The lady offers her hand. “I’m Myrtle. What’s your name, dear?”

“Rinoa,” she answers, still not quite believing it, shaking her new teacher’s hand.

“Let’s start, shall we? Your friends told me they would like to assist. Do you mind?”

* * *

When she comes back home, two hours later – Selphie insisted they should celebrate with Balamb cappuccino – Squall is just coming out of the shower. He took the day off since he just came back from a mission and it’s Rinoa's birthday. He has put on a pair of sweatpants and he’s drying his hair off when she comes in and traps him into a bear hug that could rival Selphie’s.

He ignores the ache in his still sore muscles and chuckles, embracing her, placing a kiss on her forehead. “I guess you liked it?”

“I **_loved_** it. Myrtle is such a good teacher. She told me I did well. I can’t wait for the next lesson!” she beams, placing a kiss on his lips. “The girls told me it was your idea. Thank you, Squall. It really, really means the world to me.”

He shrugs. “Selphie was so mad. She came here with Kavya before I left, they examined all the books we have. She said I bought you so many presents about music that she didn’t know what to get you.” He scratches his neck. “So I told her about the piano lessons and she said now **_that_** would be her gift.” He smirks, hugging her again. “Guess I know now why Irvine is so scared of upsetting her.”

“You’re so bad!” she laughs, with a brush on his chest. She would hit him playfully, but she knows missions about monster-hunts in Esthar make his muscles ache.

He appreciates the gesture and captures her lips again. “Happy birthday, Rinoa.”

She happily sighs. “Thanks. And welcome back Squall,” she whispers with a smile. It’s their ritual – she always welcomes him back when he returns from a mission, she even muttered it to him last night, when he slipped into bed at four and wrapped her in his arms. He loves it, because he feels accepted. At home. Coming back to her is coming back home.

He smirks, and she watches him, tilting her head to the side. “What’s that for?”

“Your gift is on the kitchen table. Wanna open it?” he says.

“Of course. But Selphie’s right, you know.”

“It’s your birthday. A gift is required. Selphie was the one who told me that.”

Rinoa giggles and he takes her hand, guiding her to the kitchen. He hasn’t had the time to wrap the books, so she immediately sees what they are and she recognizes them.

Her mum’s music books. All of them.

“Damn, Squall. If you want no tears you have to stop giving me things that make me cry!”

He embraces her from behind, moving his hands on her forearms, trying to soothe her. “Happy tears?” he whispers.

“So happy I can’t even believe it.” She turns into his embrace and roughly hugs him, mumbling an apology when she feels his soreness through the bond. “I thought Caraway had thrown those away,” she sobs, as he kisses her temple again and again to console her.

“He put them into a box.”

“You talked to him, didn’t you?”

She feels his hesitation through the bond and she gently encourages him. “Yeah. I told him. Hope it’s ok. I mean, we never talked about it and-“

“it’s ok,” she says, dismissing it with a flick of her hand. “So he gave you the books?”

Squall scratches his neck. “He said no, but I might have said something that made him reconsider. Anyway, they are yours now. They were not kept in pristine conditions, so maybe we should go to the bookshop in Balamb and ask if they can be restored. The binding at least should be redone.” He gently pulls away, moving locks of hair glued to her cheeks by the tears. “Do you have to work, today?”

She shakes her head.

He gives her a crooked smile. “Care to go back to Balamb, then?”

* * *

Ten lessons with Myrtle are not enough. Rinoa craves music and she absorbs like a sponge. Soon it becomes a weekly appointment, and the routine of her life is tinged with happiness and satisfaction. Her shifts at Garden’s Library, her voluntary work at the Infirmary as a healer, biweekly magic training with Edea, girl night on Friday, dinner in town on Saturday with the gang, the Sunday afternoon in her and Squall’s apartment with her music and her friends’ antics and tea and muffins and pizza for dinner.

It almost feels like a C Major scale, smooth and peaceful, a foundation of her being.

One day she gathers up the courage to take the sheets of her mother’s song to her lesson. She wants to know if Myrtle thinks she’ll ever be able to play it. To honor her mother.

To understand her message.

Myrtle looks at it, after the lesson, and examines the sheets, as they both enjoy a cup of coffee. Rinoa watches, flexing her fingers – she’s too used to Squall massaging her hand after practice – and waits.

Myrtle takes off her glasses. “I think you can play it,” she finally says, drinking a sip of her coffee. “You’ll need to practice a lot more, though. Did you ever hear this song?”

Rinoa shakes her head, gripping her mug. “My mother died before she could play it for me. I guess she was composing it when I was in the room with her, but I don’t really remember the melody.”

“Did you try to sight-read it?”

Rinoa fidgets and grabs her bag, pulling out a block. “I copied the notes here.”

“Mmh. You did well. Do you want to hear the first bars? Maybe we can help your memory.”

Rinoa nods. Myrtle sits at the piano and Rinoa closes her eyes, picturing herself as a small girl listening…

…and then her entire world shatters, as soon as Myrtle plays the first few bars.

“Stop!” she screams. Myrtle looks at her, concerned.

“Oh, dear! Are you ok?”

She’s not. She remembers.

She remembers, and it’s beautiful and soul-crushing.

* * *

By the time Squall comes home, hastily taking leave after a meeting because he has sensed her distress, she has cried so much her head hurts.

Angelo looks at Squall when he enters the apartment, but her master is so distressed that she just wags her tails.

“Rinoa? What happened?”

She bursts into tears again, frantically trying to wipe her cheeks. She promised, no tears, and yet here she is, crying her heart out in front of him.

He is by her side in a heartbeat. “Rinoa it’s ok if you want to cry. But I need to know what happened. Please.”

“I pr-promised-“

“Forget that promise,” he interrupts. He takes her hands in his. “We’ll deal with that later. What’s wrong?” He cups her face, wiping a tear with his thumb.

She closes her eyes and falls against his chest. He immediately closes his arms around her, holding her tight, whispering consoling words of love in her ear, until the outburst of tears subsides. “I brought the song with me, today. I wanted to ask Myrtle if she thinks I’ll be able to play it, one day.”

When the silence stretches again between them, Squall softly prompts, “and…?”

“…She said I can, with practice.”

Squall doesn’t understand. It should be good news. It’s exactly what she wanted.

She feels his hesitation through the bond and continues, “she asked if I wanted to hear the first bars of the song, and I accepted. And as soon as she started playing… God. I remembered.” The tears cut into her voice again, and he holds her tight against his chest, turning his head to kiss her temple. “The beginning of the song… I remember now,” she says, swallowing hard, the crying coloring her voice with yearning. “She played it while I was in the music room with her. I remember I asked her why she stopped and she explained to me how pauses in music work.” _Sometimes, in music, silence is more important._ Julia is smiling, in her memory, patient and understanding. Music and love.

“Is remembering bad?” he whispers.

She shakes her head against his chest, her cheek reddening against the rough texture of his uniform. “It just hurts that I can play that song and she won’t be here to listen to it. And she won’t be the one teaching me to play it. And she was so happy when Caraway said I could learn to play. I just miss my mum,” she finishes, feeling so childish in her wail, feeling so selfish, and yet she can’t stop her pain.

Squall sinks his hand into her hair. He wonders how much of that pain **_he_** caused, asking her to promise not to cry. He feels like Caraway, taking the comfort from his little girl by selling the piano away.

“Don’t you ever dare to compare yourself to him again,” she hisses. “You’ve been nothing short of amazing to me. You didn’t cause me any pain. You gave me strength.”

Squall sighs, using the hand in her hair to gently tug her head away from his chest. “I want you to feel free to cry, though. I didn’t mean that promise like this.” He closes his eyes, trying to find the right words. When he opens them again, she’s looking at him, her eyes still watery, puffy, and red. “I don’t want you to cry out of frustration. I want you to believe that you can do it and use that frustration as energy to do better. But if you feel pain, I want you to feel safe to cry.” He leans her forehead against hers. “With me, it’s safe to cry. Please remember that.”

She sniffles, and they stay like this for hours, until she gets up for her evening practice and he watches, and he listens, letting the bond through them resonate with the pride and the admiration she inspires in him.

* * *

It takes her almost six months of tireless – and secret – practice, but Rinoa can finally play a full song for Squall.

On his twenty-second birthday, after their friends parted for the night, she sits at her mother’s piano while he watches her from the sofa, Angelo on his side, with her muzzle against his thigh.

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, feeling Squall’s thoughts wrapping and steading her through her bond. She counts in her mind, as Myrtle taught her to, and begins to play.

Memories flood through the bond, as Squall reminisces about another time and place, when his father heard the same song played by her mother. It’s still as beautiful and melancholy as it was in his dream, and he has never heard Rinoa play like that. Her practice has become second nature, to him; he listens to her without really hearing, as he finds her music soothing, but he has never thought there’s something she wants to tell him. He admires the way the soft light of their living room plays on her skin, how it reflects off the rings nestled on the swell of her breasts, the way her fingers touch the keys. She looks so beautiful while playing that suddenly he understands how Laguna felt hearing Julia play. There’s a longing in the song, there are tenderness and gentleness, there are elegance and grace. There are talent and hard work. He smiles, thinking how much the SeeD principles apply to Rinoa at this moment: she works hard, she studies hard, but she plays softly.

He loves her all the more for that. For her resolve, and for her love.

Rinoa wraps the song up and she takes a second to exhale. Myrtle told her breathing properly is essential, and she hopes she did well, even if she was a nervous wreck. She felt it, on the first few notes – the trembling of her left hand, the need to calm down, Squall’s assurance washing over her.

He claps a little, and she turns on the bench to look at him, smiling. “Did you like it?”

“It was amazing. Thank you.”

She fidgets, looking down, her hand clenching ever so softly around her rings. “D-do you… do you think…”

He feels her silent question, in their bond. “It was beautiful, Rinoa. It was perfect. As I remember it.” He feels her hesitation, again, her doubts running along the bond as a cold breeze. “It was even better because it was **_you_** playing for **_me_**.”

She smiles again, shaking her head. “It can’t be better than when my mother played it,” she says.

“It is. Trust me. Your mother was wonderful and melancholy. You are… you are strong and determined and nostalgic. I loved your take on the song. It makes it unique.” He pats his thighs, signaling to her she can go sit on them. She does, careful not to disturb her dog, and he immediately wraps his arms around her hips, spreading his fingers on the soft silk of her summer dress.

“It was an amazing birthday present and you are talented. Thank you.”

The bond between them thrills with happiness. “I can play it again when you want to hear it.”

He nods, cups her face with his hands, and kisses her.

Later, when they’re tangled in bed and a light late-summer breeze enters their open window, he feels a question in their bond, a little self-doubt, something sad and yearning. She is wondering what her mother would think of her take on the song. “She would be proud and she would love it. You did your mother justice, Rinoa. And you’ll understand her message soon enough.”

Rinoa smiles, kissing his chest to thank him for his undying support. Squall is her rock, steady and supportive, strong and sweet, and she giggles when she hears his thoughts on her and SeeD principles. He’s right, though. She works hard. She studies hard. She plays softly.

And she doesn’t cry because tears have nothing to do with that. Resolve does. Love does.

* * *

Her engagement dinner is a late-night ice-cream eaten on Balamb’s beach, a week later, after her performance for Myrtle’s piano recital at Balamb’s Theatre. She is bursting at the seams with happiness, and he feels so in love it almost hurts. She laughs, as the ice-cream drips on her hand, she blushes when he takes her hand to lick it away, she falls so easily into his arms he thinks she almost melts and her mouth tastes like chocolate and coconut.

He watches her as she finishes her ice-cream, sighing like a happy little girl. At that moment, she **_is_** a happy little girl, the four-year-old girl that listened to Julia playing the piano, wanting to play too. The part of her that was trapped in the little girl that suffered is free, now. She’s proud of her accomplishment, and she feels like her mother is proud, too. She points to the brightest star in the sky and she says, “that star. That’s my mum. See how bright and happy she is?”

He looks at her because **_she_** is the brightest star, for him. She is so beautiful she’s radiant, as she twirls laughing with her shoes in her hand, her feet in the water, her white skirt flowing around her legs. She is bright and happy, as Julia must be watching her from above.

And that’s all he needs.

He extends his hand and she takes it, mid-twirl, with her eyes shining as if she’s pulling him into an impromptu dance. He stands his ground, though.

“There’s a place I want to show you.”

His voice is serious and she sobers up, following him in the shallow water until they reach an inlet hidden behind the Fire Cave. Rinoa’s breath catches in her throat as she takes in the magnificent view – this place is so well hidden that probably only Squall knows about it, and it is immaculate and untouched.

“This is amazing,” she whispers.

“I used to come here a lot, before knowing you,” he says, and she turns to look at him. He’s leaning against a rock, taking off his shoes and rolling his trousers up to his knees. When he’s done, he crosses his arms over his chest, looking off into the distance. From there, they can see the soft lights along Horizon’s Bridge, and he looks lost in his memories. He told her something important about him on that bridge.

He is going to make himself even more open and vulnerable. A nakedness of his soul that is so much more frightful than the nakedness of the bodies.

But she will understand. She is light and love and acceptance and respect. She works hard, she studies hard, but she plays softly.

“I came here to be alone. Nobody knows about this place, as you can see.” She nods, and he clears his throat, feeling suddenly terrified. “Nobody would bother me, here. I could be myself.”

She gasps, conflicting emotions running through their bond. Amidst all that she receives, she feels the need to give something back, and she approaches him carefully. This is **_his place_**. The place where he could avoid masks because no one would try to pull things out of him by force. The place where he could think. The place where no one would try to pry him open if he didn’t want to. The place where nature respected him, and in exchange he respected nature.

“Oh, Squall,” she whispers, and her arms come gently around his neck, and she feels his hands on her hips, warm, almost hot against her tulle skirt. He leans his forehead against the swell of her breasts, with his eyes closed, and she caresses his hair while he tries to regain his emotional balance through his labored breathing and his conflicted thoughts.

When he opens his eyes, he sees his Griever ring, reflecting the moonlight. It looks almost preternatural against her white skin, and he gently fingers it. Then he smiles. The same smile he had on the flower field when she looked down and saw him alive and breathing. The same smile he had that night, after Ultimecia, on the balcony. The same smile that makes her fall in love with him again.

He swallows and puts his hand into his jacket’s pocket. She watches him, curiously, and her breath catches in her throat again when he pulls out a light blue box and opens it. The aquamarine eye of a small, dainty, and feminine Griever ring captures the moonlight and gives a gentle glow.

“I promise I’ll give you the best engagement dinner you can imagine,” he says, looking at the ring, and then into her eyes. “Or engagement day, or whatever you want. But it can’t be more perfect than this.” He puts the box into her trembling hand. “I’m **_so_** yours, Rinoa. And yet I’ve never felt more like myself. This is…” Words fail him and he closes his eyes, trying to say out loud how he feels and not rely on their bond for this. She deserves to hear it. “You are like this place, for me. And I don’t need it if I have you.”

She threatens to crumble, because she knows he’s not done yet and her soul is swelling with happiness. She says silent, and waits.

“This is not an engagement ring,” he says after a few minutes of thick silence, with a voice that sounds almost crumpled with emotion. “This is your wedding band if you’re willing to wear it.”

She swallows, trying to find her voice through the tears. “I would be honored to wear it.”

He snaps the ring’s box shut, so it won’t get lost into the water, and pulls her closer to steal her breath, yet again, with a kiss. She is sobbing with happiness, and the feeling gets even headier when an ocean wave crashes onto the little beach of the inlet, spraying their legs.

“I got your dress ruined,” he murmurs on her lips.

“Worth it,” she says, laughing and crying as she circles his neck with her arms, her ring’s box firmly in her hand.

“We can go buy your engagement ring, tomorrow. I’m sorry I can’t give it to you now, I was just… carried away.”

“It’s ok. I don’t need it.”

“It’s tradition, though.”

“Who wants a traditional engagement?” She is so happy she would marry him on the spot, and he is so stuck on what a good fiancé should do that it’s almost endearing. “Let’s be unconventional.” She kisses him briefly and she pulls away to look at the ring again, gently caressing its precious eye. “Zell?” she asks.

He nods. “The jeweler only mounted the stone. Zell said he couldn’t do that properly. It’s an aquamarine.” He falls silent, scratching his neck. “They say it represents tranquility, loyalty… and hope. I just couldn’t wait to give it to you. I know it’s not precious, and-”

She silences him with a finger on his mouth. “It can’t be more perfect than this. You said it yourself.”

“I guess I did,” he admits, smiling, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You know this means you’ll have to give back my ring, right? I need a wedding band too,” he jokes, and she giggles, nodding.

“Can I try it on? Please?”

He doesn’t answer. He takes the ring out of the box and slowly slips it on her finger. She savors the shared feeling of amazement at that simple gesture, touching her Griever’s eye with her thumb. “Why did you have a stone mounted on it?” She knows he doesn’t do anything that doesn’t have a meaning, and she’s curious.

“Because when I was blind, you helped me see.”

Arpeggio, she thinks, looking into his serene aquamarine yes. He is a broken chord of high notes, soaring higher and higher and washing over her soul like an unutterably beautiful, healing balm.

* * *

_To: General Fury Caraway  
Blue Horizon Boulevard  
Deling City, Galbadia_

_From: Rinoa Heartilly Caraway,  
Balamb Garden, Balamb Isle_

_Dear father,_

_We have decided on October, 16 th for our wedding.  
We will have neither a traditional nor a grand ceremony. We just wish to share our vows in a special place to the both of us, with the people we love the most.  
We have our differences, but I love you, father. I wish for you to be there, among the people I love the most._

_R._

* * *

_To: Rinoa Heartilly Caraway  
Balamb Garden, Balamb Isle_

_From: General Fury Caraway  
Blue Horizon Boulevard  
Deling City, Galbadia_

_Dear Rinoa,_

_I’ll be honored to be there.  
My support comes a little too late, but I hope it’s not too little. There’s a parcel with this letter.  
It is your mother’s metronome. I found it when your fiancé came to my house looking for her books. He says you’re determined to play her last song. I don’t doubt you’ll be able to do it, and when it happens, I hope you will want me by your side to listen.  
I’m sure you will make me and your mother proud.  
We both love you, little girl.  
Gen. F. Caraway_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to end every part with something about Rinoa and her father. Thanks for reading. See you soon for part 3!

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a oneshot, but then I realized it would get way too long. So I decided to split into three parts.  
> As usual, I only relied on Grammarly, and English’s my second language, so if you notice mistakes please feel free to point them out:  
> 


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